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Interactions and Reactions

It's the reactions and the interactions of all the people around me and the people inside me or who have been inside me or who wanted to be or who I wanted to be or who were outside me, knocking.

Last time you came around here you tried touching my hair. You were sitting behind me and you thought I didn't notice. Didn't notice you reach out and with blank expression (or maybe boredom) touch my hair and then with realizing what you had done sat back in your chair, shocked, and then smiled. This nervous smile that made me smile because it was so completely innocent, even though you had just touched my hair. And after looking around with an attitude that matched your smile, you tuned back into the lecture and left me and my hair alone. That was fine with me. I didn't know your name. But I do now.

Another girl. She was walking out in the night, but so was everyone else. We were all busy with ourselves thinking of; to the left, maybe dinner, and to the right, perhaps last nights engaging game of chess. The white pawn to play and win in eleven moves. But who knows what she was thinking. All I know is that she was looking up. Walking towards me and looking up. So I looked up. I didn't see anything, except when I looked back at her to question her authority of course, I saw her smiling. And so I smiled and realized I'd been had (but secretly I knew this from the beginning). I like to think that I made her night. I only saw her smile out of the corner of my left eye and her head was down, but I knew what kind of smile it was. Self-amused. And my smile was also amused, but not with myself, with her. No, with myself, because I was the one who looked up after all. Up after her up. Which evidently meant nothing. I never met her again. I don't think I would remember her face even if I had. Even if I had seen her in that small moment when memory kicks in after she turns her head down and a little to the right and smiles just so. No I wouldn't remember her.

We all smile. We all sing. Maybe if we really did all smile. He told me smile at someone you don't know. I haven't done it yet. I'm always looking though. No one ever smiles at strangers. A smile holds so much significance and baggage all connected to the wrong things at the wrong time and no one wants to be held responsible for any of it. He told me: Become alive, become sensitive. "Notice the cracks in the linoleum." But he didn't just say it to me. There were 227 other people sitting in the exact same room.
[Don't be afraid to touch me. Don't be afraid to touch me. Don't be afraid to lose yourself. I made it all up.]

There was this boy. He had lips. But not just any lips. Have you ever seen lips that were made to smile; as if that was their sole purpose? Well I have. I was lying on his chest, listening to him breathe when I looked up and noticed his eyes were closed but his lips were smiling. They were always smiling. This was the happiest boy (or person) I had ever met. He told me so. He said I'm happy, really happy. He asked me if I was happy, I just smiled because it really wasn't any of his business. But that same night I was kissing his neck and his hands were moving over me while I lay on top of his chest and his wonderful smile never ceased. And so I brought myself up over his face and stared at his lips that were made to smile. No wonder he's happy, he doesn't have a choice. He was made to smile for eternity. It was confidence and happiness and comfort and sexiness and perfection within fault - all rolled into this smile that is never meant to fade or be erased. And I kissed that smile hoping that somehow his smile could become a splint of happiness in my head, if nowhere else. And he broke the smile with his tongue that slipped out of his mouth and into mine. His tongue smiled too though so it all worked out. I knew his name, of course. We used to talk of politics and his stamina. And the TV that never turned off, quite like his smile.

All art should be interactive. You should be able to touch all art. That is how you know how much it is worth. By touching the canvas, by touching the plaster, by touching the lenses and the wood and the plastic and the and the and the...yea. And then you can feel what the artist was feeling and then you know how it all fell together and how many times the artist cried and loved and hated and ate and fucked all within the touch. Or something like that.

She is happiest in silence. She takes pictures and likes to watch the birds fly by her 8th floor window. She once sat in the Eaton Center for 3 hours on a bench watching people go by. She once screamed her free speech out above the clicking of heels and the buzz of depression telling everyone that they didn't care, but she was too right. She worships the sun and gets very sad when it hides behind clouds. You see, she's simple. Simple like juice boxes and silhouettes in sugar. She likes doing laundry and grocery shopping. It really makes her feel good. She notices your moles and your freckles and when you dye your hair and when you buy new jeans and when you're sick and when you're lying. But she also notices street names and pink siding and British accents and the shoes you were wearing last time you looked her in the eye. She organizes her books by size and her CD's by love. But she can smile and wash it all away with the silence, ya know what I mean?

I'm disappointed in you.